Dolce Vita
by IndiaVisser
Summary: Exile hadn't been part of the plan for Michael Gray. But that was where he found himself, exiled on a ship bound for New York. Get to New York, sign the paperwork and get things under control. That was the new plan. But she hadn't been part of that new plan at all.
1. Chapter 1

Before, life had felt simple. Michael Gray been a man, a warrior. He'd been a dirty gangster hidden behind slick clothes and impeccable taste. Now- he was a crippled, broken man with anger sewn deep into his heart. Tom had cast him out, like Lucifer from heaven. Now; Michael Gray, was no longer an archangel of the Peaky Blinders.

He'd chosen Polly over Tommy. And by God, Tommy's wrath was unending. Michael would surely know regret for his choice every day now indefinitely. That was part of Tommy's design. To inflict constant and unyielding torment on his enemies and betrayers. Though he was family, Michael knew; he was not above Tommy's fury.

So he had found himself on that fucking ship. The _SS Munroe_. The letter, with a sizeable cheque to see him sufficiently covered until money begun to flow in, had instructed him to align himself closely with the Sabbatini family as the monopoly of the liquor import to New York was taken over. Tommy had underlined '_at whatever cost'_. Michael took this as a challenge. He never fancied himself as much of a follower, but the loss of Tommy's confidence was an enormous blow. He felt like a wounded animal, bitter and pulsing with agitation as it felt like the world turned in on him. If winning over the Sabbatini family and filling the Shelby coffers with US dollars was what it would take to win Tommy's approval- then that's what he would do, and one hundred times over at that.

The three night journey to New York had not been managed alone. No- Isaiah and two others had followed him over, one of Johnny Dog's kin and the other, a no good Peaky Blinder son, all ready for the New World. Together the four of them schemed and chain-smoked the entire way across the seas. A bottle of whisky in hand had kept the conversation lively and the four had become like a band of brothers, godless and unruly- Birmingham's heathens ready to be set upon New York like rapid dogs hungry for bones.

Across the sea, land begun to approach, Michael cast a miserable eye outside the small porthole, watching the docks draw closer and closer among the waves. He'd never wanted to leave Birmingham. But this would be a new chance, a prospect to rise up and make a name for himself.

'Ready brother?' Called Isaiah, clapping a hand against Michael's shoulder as he adjusted his overcoat into place, ready to join the throngs of people bracing to flood into the sprawling city. Michael steeled his gaze, facing ahead and awkwardly coming to stand, leaning heavily against his cane for support. Truth be told his body still hadn't healed from the shooting two months prior, and he was doubtful it ever would. The doctors said that the scar tissue would always be present and apparently- ever painful. A self-prescribed diet of cocaine, morphine and alcohol kept most of the agony of the bullets at bay, especially from the bullet that had lodged itself in the left juncture of where thigh met groin. Michael remembered listening to Polly tell him just how fucking lucky he was. But always was he aware of just how close he had come to death, and not just for the first time.

'Let's get this fuckin' over with.' Michael huffed under his breath, slowly and steadily emerging from the cabin with his boys in tow, ready to negotiate customs as the liner approached port.

In the hallways, the crowds gave him a wide berth, encouraged by the men surrounding him, pushing bodies aside. He hated this, the eyes of the elderly looking at him with a knowing look, the understanding of living life as less than whole. He suffered more under the looks of beautiful women, who before his very eyes, fleetingly reduced him down to nothing than a handsome face with broken body. Back in Birmingham, before John's death and his own near miss, Michael could have had any woman he wanted. Now he just longed for the soft skin of woman that wouldn't look at him with horror at his awful disfigurement.

Being herded through immigration was far easier than he had anticipated. Handing over his passport and waited for the man to recognise his name never came.

'Business or pleasure?' The man asked in a thick New Yorker accent, barely sparing him a glance.

'Pleasure.' Michael replied; a dark, Machiavellian smile curling at his lips without his own authority. The man nodded, curtly stamped him, and waved him on. Michael exhaled in relief. He was finally in New York and ready to do battle with what tools he had been given. Michael had been told a car would be waiting at the docks to pick them up and take them to the Sabattini stronghold in Little Italy, and sure enough, a line of stunning Rolls-Royce Phantoms were parked waiting for them, but most surprising was what stood proudly in front of them.

She was far more beautiful than anything his mind could conjour up. The whole world slowed as he drew closer to her. She was impossibly beautiful, from a distance he couldn't miss her flowing white blonde hair and diminutive stature. Her skin was pale but striking against the bland surrounds they found themselves in. She held his gaze defiantly as he drew closer, he noted how her eyes shone the most brilliant green he had ever seen, and he had seen Tommy's collection from the Romanovs. Her lips were fully and of dusty pink and she wore very little make up save for some of that kohl he often saw Esme wearing before she had upped and disappeared.

'Mister Gray I presume?' She greeted aloud, surveying him and his boys evenly as they stood before her.

'Right you are madam.' Michael countered with a tip of his peaked cap, he was sure the razor would have glinted in the dim sunshine.

'If you'll follow me. I'll be taking you to Mr. Sabbatini now.' She rounded the car and placed herself squarely in the front passenger seat, leaving both Michael and Isaiah exchanging bewildered looks between themselves, before finally settling into the backseat. Smoothly reclining as the automobile pulled away from the curb and towards their first assignment- to charm the head of the Sabbatini family, Vincenzo 'Mago' Sabbatini.


	2. A Sweet Vice

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* * *

So I suppose you're Mr Sabbatini's secretary or something.' Michael surmised, casting an amused look to side at Isaiah, who exchanged the look tenfold.

'Something like that.' She countered, barely glancing back at them, keeping her eyes on the road as the driver negotiated the cramped slums of New York. The drive was mostly quiet, save for the occasional swig of a bottle exchanged between the four men, and the sound of a lighter flickering as Michael lit cigarette after cigarette to keep himself entertained, rather than ask the girl any more questions. She could hardly be older than him, but within her youth, he could see a coldness - only acquired through seeing the most violent of delights of humanity.

In a hustling burrow full of small shopfronts and cafes, the automobile came to another smooth stop. Unassisted, the girl slipped out of the front of the automobile, waiting patiently for the men to clamber out and adjust themselves, before leading them towards a particularly grand set of stairs and doorway, to what appeared to be a large hotel, guarded by two rather worse for wear men - bearing arms openly and appearing just as menacing as the men back home.

Michael was not one to usually shy away from people's eyes. He was so confident back in Birmingham, he had felt like a God among men. But with Luca Changretta's gang gunning him and John down, he'd become more wary, more broken into the world than before. Relying heavily on his cane, Michael rounded the automobile, taking the steps slowly, a low groan escaping him as the pain stretched from his inner thigh up to his side. Isaiah leapt into action, rushing towards Michael to offer an arm of support. But Michael hissed, watching with mild regret as Isaiah recoiled. Though the Sabbatini's knew Michael had been targeted by Luca, he didn't want them to truly see the damage he had inflicted.

Walking slowly inside, led by the girl with the white blonde hair, Michael finally saw the true scope of the Sabbatini's operation now that they had taken over Changretta's operation. To the left of the opulent hallway fitted with a never-ending Persian rug and gold fixtures, was another room, white-washed and simple but still elegantly detailed with richly polished wood furniture. The room was mostly occupied by a mountain of crates stacked against the north wall and a large gin still tinkering away in the right corner. Pausing for a second, Michael watched the operation as two men worked, one hauling the crates one by one and the other with pen and pad, jotting down his notes. The scribing man lifted his gaze, momentarily catching eyes with Michael before a scowl formed over his sunken, tired looking face before he marched to the door, flinging it shut with a rather loud thud.

The girl paused, opening a door to the left and gesturing for Michael to follow, she raised her hand to Isaiah as he made to follow, clearly baying him to wait outside.

Don't worry about Matteo.' The girl offered, closing the door behind Michael with a soft click, round the huge mahogany desk and taking a stance behind the impressive chair. Michael eased himself down into the soft-padded armchair facing the desk, pain shooting up his side at the movement.

'I'm not.' Michael bluntly responded, fishing his bottle of morphine from his coat pocket along with his cigarettes and lighter. Swallowing two of the pills, he quickly lit a cigarette, pulling heavily from the stick as his nerves and pain subsided.

'Something tells me it would take a great deal more than that to bother you.' Her eyes glinted, the devil shifting in her deep green eyes.

'Is that so?' He queried, pretending not to notice her words. In reality, he was painfully aware of the peculiar sensation of wanting her, one that he had not experienced quite so heavily before. Not even with Charlotte.

'I think so.' A smirk pulling at her mouth as she watched Michael eye the side of her that wasn't hidden behind the armchair. She didn't wear bejewelled clothing, rather - stuck to a simple but elegant designed, a deep emerald long-sleeved slip dress that accentuated her slim frame and luminous skin, making her hair shine a beacon.

A curt knock at the door interrupted the two as they assessed each other. An interruption that Michael was grateful for. He was used to being the man women wanted, the handsome faced good boy turned gangster, but what he wasn't used to was being the cripple, and his pride smarted at how women turned away from him when they realized he wasn't like any other man anymore. More than anything, it alarmed him that this girl, exposed to his broken nature as she was, still maintained her curious gaze.

'You know.' Michael announced, dashing the end of his cigarette in the nearby ashtray. 'I didn't quite catch your name.'

The girl was moving towards the door again, barely a backwards glance towards him as he heard her speak from behind him.

'It's Beatrice.'

He could barely respond before a commotion swept into the room. A small man, fitted with a pinstripe suit and impressively slicked back hair was yelling over his shoulder as he moved, a stream of thick Italian words firing out of him at a rapid pace as he moved closer to the chair. A man stood in the threshold of the doorway behind the desk, countering the small man's words. With a final biting comment in the unintelligible language, the man flicked his wrist away from him, the larger man rolled his eyes, huffing under his breath as he stepped back into the adjoining room, slamming the door behind him with a shake of his head.

'Sorry about that.' The man offered, coming to sit behind the desk, resting his elbows against the arm of the recliner as he eyed Michael. 'We are a close family. Sometimes, we argue.'

'Nothing I haven't heard before.' Michael countered, lighting another cigarette, watching his counterpart evenly.

'How rude of me to not introduced myself, Michael.' The man begun, extending his hand over the desk. 'I am Vincenzo Sabbatini.'

'I know.' Michael responded, rising slightly, ignoring the pain as he shook the man's hand firmly.

'Good. Let's get down to it. What do you think you can offer me? I know Thomas Shelby sent you over here, to break bread. But what is that you can offer?'

Michael grinned, the devil in him growing in pride as he would uncover his talents. The time for Michael to rain down on New York had come.

* * *

'Fuckin' hell Gray.' Sabbatini remarked sometime later, a grin stretching across his face as he slapped his palm against the wood top of the table, Michael sat quietly in his chair, sipping politely at the glass of gin that had been offered. 'You Peakys are fuckin' crazy - We got a deal.'

'Tommy wants this done right.' Michael warned, setting down the heavy glass, relieved that his plan had been well received.

'And so it will be. I couldn't have planned it better, come; break bread with my family tonight and rest. Tomorrow we will begin.' Sabbatini pushed out from his seat, standing and adjusting his impeccable suit before leading with a gesture towards the door. Tonight he had said Michael and his boys could stay in the house before they would be shown to the house Sabbatini had procured for them. Tomorrow, Michael would do his first favour for Sabbatini, and that would be bringing the Belle Harbour neighbourhood under his control.

Stepping out into the hallway, Michael quietly spoke to Isaiah and the others, bringing them to follow behind him into the dining room as Sabbatini had instructed. They awkwardly took seats at the far end of the table. Watching as Sabbatini disappeared into another doorway -God this place was fucking huge- before being shortly followed by five individuals. One of them being Beatrice.

Michael watched with a mixture of confusion and curiosity as she took a seat elegantly near the head of the table. Her gaze turning to smile politely at the newcomers, that mischievous look she wore about her had disappeared as she caught Michael's eye.

'Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my family. This is my wife Agnes.' He gestured to a slender woman with startling similarities to Beatrice, save for eyes that were warm like honey.

'My son, Nicholas.' A small boy, no older than eleven proudly bobbed his head, wearing a similar version of his father's suit, imitating the appearance down to the gelled hair.

'My brother Marco, my mother Maria and my daughter Beatrice.' His hand waved over the last three but there was absolutely no mistaking Beatrice, now in this light, Michael could see vague likenesses between mother and father to daughter. The timid flame of desire that had just begun to burn for her was now doused out. Absolutely impossible was it for him to go near his newest associates daughter, no matter how alluring she was.

At the end of the table, the small family said their graces, politely ignoring the Blinders as they waited, feigning ignorance as they dined not to partake in the Lord's Prayer. Swiftly, the sound of cutlery clattering and silence filling the room comfortably permitted the newcomers to dig in. Minutes into the meal and out of the easy silence a low, gravelly voice begun to speak, moving in fast indiscernible words before being cut off by Sabbatini.

'No.' He raised his voice firmly, setting aside his knife and fork to lean his fisted hands against the tabletop, eyeing his brother harshly. 'We talk in English tonight.'

Marco huffed, resuming his meal without so much as another word, Michael looked about the table, none seemed so concerned as Beatrice who remained as unmoving as a statue. As Michael looked down the table she jolted back into animation, avoiding his gaze.

'So Mister Gray.' She announced, eyes focused on her mealy, barely glancing up. 'What was your occupation back in England.'

Michael coughed politely into his napkin before daring to speak.

'I was the chief accountant for the family business.'

She cocked her head to the side. 'What kind of business would send their chief accountant overseas?'

'Beatrice enough!' Snapped Sabbatini. Michael watched as she shrunk in on herself and ate quietly. Agnes, who sat by her daughter tried to placate the girl, speaking in a strange mixture of Italian and another language entirely that Michael could not place. Sabbatini appeared frustrated, knuckles white as he shovelled the meal into his mouth quickly, taking huge draughts from his wine glass as he went. The rest of the meal was taken in silence. A meaningful look cast towards his family saw them rising from the table and departing from the room. Not before Sabbatini called out for Beatrice to escort the Peakys to their rooms.

Downward eyes avoided Michael as she nodded and beckoned for the men to follow her. Up the grand stairwell she moved, Michael couldn't help but be mesmerised by the way that her hips swayed as she moved up them silently, he cast a brief look backwards, spying his boys ogling her equally as much as he had been. He scowled, irritated that he wasn't the only one to notice her beauty.

One by one the boys were assigned to their rooms, leaving Michael being led to the last one down the hall.

'Sorry about earlier.' Beatrice finally spoke, the sound jolting Michael slightly.

'Nothing to apologise for.' He responded dully, swallowing two more tablets from the palm of his hand as he stood, leaning against the frame of the doorway into his room.

'There is. I didn't realise you were involved in Daddy's other business. I spoke out of turn and I apologise.' Her hands wrung against the front of her pretty dress as she spoke, eyes wide and young, almost fearful. Michael shrugged,

'No harm done. Seems like you and your father don't see eye to eye.'

She shook her head. 'Daddy has plans for me. But I don't want to be a pawn in politics.'

'What do you want to be?' Michael pressed, curious to hear her.

Her eyes lifted, long lashes framed the deep forest eyes that bore into his own pale blue.

'I want to be the Queen.'

The desire Michael had fought against all afternoon since realising just who Beatrice was, came back like a roaring fire. His eyes skimmed over her in lust, recognising a kindred spirit. Polly had always said, one day a girl was going to knock him off his feet.

But he knew she wouldn't want a cripple.

He coughed politely, breaking the heady gaze between the two, tapping his fingers against the doorway awkwardly.

'I guess this is goodnight.'

She nodded, biting her lip absentmindedly as she looked up at him. Michael bowed his head, shuffling to move out of the doorway and closing it softly behind him. He leaned against the door, forehead pressed against the soft grain of the wood listening as Beatrice walked away quietly.

How could he let her distract him as she did? He had spent the better part of the afternoon in talks with Sabbatini daydreaming about the thousand ways he would make her his, hardly knowing he was obsessing over falling into bed with the man's daughter.

He pulled away from the closed door. Shaking his head slightly, trying to suppress the thoughts of devilry that surrounded her.

* * *

Beatrice was transfixed, utterly intrigued by the man that had walked casually into her life, to dance with the devil that was her father. As she tossed and turned in the night she mused as to what exactly it was that drew her curiosity about Michael Gray but could find no explanation, was it the smooth open planes of his face? Barely marked by trials of the underworld or the cool blue eyes that dared to look her in eye. His hair was smooth and handsomely combed into waves and his three-piece suit established his nature as a man of taste.

She had barely slept last night, so caught up in the fire he had awoken in her she had contemplated slipping across the hallway to his room. Just to see what would happen. But if she was caught, her mother would flail her alive and worse would befall Michael. A shiver ran down her spine as she pulled herself up from the soft sheets of her bed, pulling her heavy red gown around her before plodding softly down to the kitchens. She would have to put these thoughts of Michael out of her head. She hardly knew him, a liaison such as this was dangerous. She'd dabbled before but this time, it was far too dangerous, even for her.

In the kitchen, her mother was already awake, a cup of coffee clasped in her hands as she stared out the bay window. As if omnipotent, her head turned just as Beatrice entered, a yawn tugging at her mouth as she shuffled.

'Beatrice.' Her mother admonished with a soft sigh, 'We have guests. It isn't proper to be moving around the house dressed in so little.'

Beatrice offered a smile. 'Don't worry mother. Gangsters don't wake up before midday.'

'No that's just your father.' Quipped Maria, the tiniest smirk peeking out from behind her coffee cup. 'I'm not sure about that Gray boy.'

Beatrice frowned, her mouth half way biting through an apple as a servant placed a cup of tea down in front of her. 'He's not a boy mother.'

Agnes shrugged, continuing to gaze out the window. 'There's a feeling about him. He is bringing something to us.' Beatrice shivered, she had felt it too.

'We don't know that yet.'

Agnes turned her chocolate gaze towards Beatrice, eyeing her without emotion.

'Hasn't your father told you the stories? He killed a priest in Birmingham, and a Jew. He's a godless devil.' Her lips were drawn tight, pursing even as she brought her cup of coffee to her lips.

'Maybe so. But I think he is quite charming.'

There was a faint gasp and a clatter as Beatrice's mother dropped her cup, the vessel bouncing slightly, hot black liquid sloshing over the sides, forming a puddle across the table that both women scattered to avoid. A maid- armed with a rag rushed to the table, efficiently mopping away the mess. Agnes held her tongue until the maid had moved away.

'Beatrice you cannot be saying these things.' She hissed lowly, eyes darting about the room. 'What your father would do if he knew you said such things.'

'But he doesn't.' Beatrice asserted defiantly. 'Because you won't tell him.'

Beatrice's eyes bore into her mother's form, daring her to rebuke her. A disturbance in the house distracted the two women. With day breaking so too did the men of the house rise. Out on the stairwell, Beatrice could see Michael slowly descending, dressed perfectly in his black trousers, matching waistcoat and crisp white shirt, his cane and jacket in hand. She cast her eyes briefly to her mother. Relief surging as she nodded curtly, looking away again as the maid placed a fresh cup of coffee down before her.

Michael rounded the kitchen. Spying the two women perched on their seats; more awake than he expected for women of high society at this hour. Last night he had slept sweetly, thoughts drifting to the door that separated him from Beatrice just five steps down the hall. The proud man inside him surged to life as he watched Beatrice openly rove him, eyes resting headily on the holsters at his sides that disappeared as he tugged on his overcoat. Her gaze flickered up to him. He was doubtful she was really aware of what she was doing, it seemed burning curiosity was her passion, whether she knew it or not. But the way she watched him was intoxicating and left him wanting more.

'Mr. Gray.' Mrs Sabbatini greeted him, a tense look about her. 'Good morning.'

'Good morning.' He murmured standing in the doorway as he readied to leave.

'Leaving so soon?' Queried Beatrice. 'Where are your boys?'

Michael shrugged casually. 'Gave 'em the day off.'

Beatrice hummed in response, her head tilted ever so slightly, watching him intently.

Mrs Sabbatini cleared her throat. 'Beatrice. Why don't you accompany Mr. Gray to his office? Maybe show him about town, give him a proper New York welcome.'

Beatrice's eyes glinted excitedly, nodded her head enthusiastically, moving past Michael without a second thought, moving up the stairwell briskly.

'That won't be necessary.' Michael responded, barely meeting eyes with Mrs Sabbatini, what would she think if she knew just what Michael had thought of Beatrice.

'Nonsense. My daughter knows New York almost better than her father. Someone needs to show you around.'

Agnes stood up from the table, coming to stand directly in front of Michael; ever so close.

'You so much as touch her and I'll have your fucking balls cut off.'


End file.
